


The Metaphorical Hearts

by Deb



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, POV Third Person, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-27
Updated: 2012-07-01
Packaged: 2017-11-08 17:14:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/445568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deb/pseuds/Deb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Is there something less self-explanatory than the heart?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Temper: a calm frame of mind

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd.  
> My lovely beta is too busy and I was far too anxious to wait.

Temper: a calm frame of mind

 

There’s a pub where John used to go. He went every so often by himself and drank a few beers before going back to their flat, back when it was their flat and they were a very unclear, but solid us. But that was then, and now is now, and John can’t go back there. He doesn’t understand why that place reminds him so arbitrarily of Sherlock, but he’s stopped questioning himself a long time ago; no excuses, no pleas.

It just does, period.

 

He knows his temper is inherent to the center of his soul, but, depending on the circumstances, he can and will lose it. It’s only a state John finds himself in; it comes and goes, like breaking waves of a very irritated tide, playing around in the shore with burning sand where the tide comes to soothe or make a mess out of his mood. It can make his soul explode or smother within its own limits. There’re so many things that make him snap in and out of this state that he tries not to push too much. He lingers in the middle, vibrating at his own boring and obtuse frequency, specially now, after all  they- he’s been through.

 

John spoke his last words to Sherlock on June and now he feels emptied out. It’s been months, long and dreary months, but he can’t put it past him because every single time he sits on his chair and falls asleep, he wakes up looking at the one in front of him, vacant and cold, and wonders why June had to happen. He wishes to erase that month from his life and go back to what it was before, but he can’t. So he hums a tune and forces himself to fall asleep again. It’s become a ritual: waking-wondering-wishing-humming-sleeping. That last part is new, though, he’s been sleepless for as long as he can remember; everything becoming grey, tiresome, dense, uninteresting, unmoving and deadly muffled.

He’s lost the light that Sherlock irradiated to him, from him, through him, towards him, thanks to him. He’s lost the light and he wants it back; to feel again the waves of warm brightness crushing onto him and hold on to it- him, him. And never again let go.

 

A morning comes when he gets tired of his own lamenting and he loses the poor control he has on his already fragile temper. The victims are a mug, scattered over the floor, and the tea, spilled all over the place. John sits down on the sofa, lets his head fall between his legs and grabs it, almost pulling his hair with a discrete violence to cover up the pain he now knows is settling in his heart. No tears fall, though. The soldier in him always wins these battles.


	2. The art of losing it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John loses his mind, for the sake of his heart.   
> Is it worth it?

The Art of Losing it

 

So Sherlock jumped. He jumped and made him watch. He lied. He lied and made him go. _You machine._ That’s what John said. But it was all a lie and John ran back to his friend. Sherlock had to lie again. He lied and made him listen. _Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please._ That’s what he said, but John wouldn’t believe him; Sherlock knew that much. He had to try anyway, make him watch and listen to his lies. He let a little secret slide through his words nonetheless. _It’s a trick, just a magic trick._ John could hold on to that, he would use it to keep holding on. And John is holding on, he’s using his last strength to hold on; to hold tight, tight, tight. Sherlock wouldn’t slip through his fingers. _Don’t be dead._

Sooner or later, it was bound to happen; John would’ve to lose it. So he is, right now, losing it, big and sound. One year since, and now he’s losing control. He’s losing perspective. He’s losing hope. _One more miracle._ He did ask for it a year ago, but Sherlock couldn’t listen. Or... he could and he actually did, but what was there left to do? John used to be full of hope, but not anymore. It took one year, one long and lifeless year full of doubts and secrets, to deplete any kind of warm light from his heart.

 

Sitting on the sofa, John turns to look at the smiley face on the wall. _Stop shooting the wall._ Then, he turns his gaze to the ceiling and closes his eyes. He now understands that he can’t continue this way and he needs to choose: one side, the land of the living or the other, the land of the dead. He has to make a choice. His friend is gone. He can’t keep living with the dead, with a ghost tangled around his life. There’re two choices, stay or leave, life or- Silence. Silence falls. Silence will always fall. _This phone call, it’s… it’s my note._ That’s what he said. And he sees the jump replaying over and over in his head, words on repeat for hours and hours and hours. _Ok, look up, I’m on the rooftop._ That’s what he said.

 

Memories hit his mind non-stop, full-power at any given time. It began with isolated episodes every few nights for the first months. Blood, eyes and hands; voices, phones and silence; the sensation of falling, a heart beating and a wrist; no pulse, death and gone; a bicycle, a siren and a lifeless body. Those are all of the things that torment him rising from his own memory. It took one year for them to become so incessant, vivid and overwhelming that he now realizes he’s suffering PTSD again, from a fall- and silence. But there’re also other things eating him alive, from his mind; his own creations, his own living and breathing monster: the things unsaid, his own words, muttered, whispered in his dreams, explanations never given. So John decides that he will stop looking for evidence to rekindle the fire and bring back the light- his beaming light. He will tell himself the truth: Sherlock didn’t say _wait for me_ , he meant _let go. Let go, John._

 

"Goodbye, Sherlock."

_  
_

_Goodbye, John_. That’s what he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is an extra, unplanned chapter. Written on a bus yesterday...  
> Next chapter is already on its way. I'm being a productive motherfucker, ok?


	3. Regaining Control (Or how to lose it again)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One heart becomes a pyre.

Regaining Control (Or how to lose it again)

 

A month or two after his breakdown, John decides to finally, finally, at last, say a permanent goodbye. He leaves the flat and takes his dull life elsewhere, far from Baker Street and its living, breathing, haunting ghost. He manages to find a job, a girlfriend, a new job, another girlfriend, and he begins to walk through life again; re-learning all the things that he already knew, taking it one step at a time, slow and simple, and he begins to regain control. His life, his wrecked life, is being rebuilt piece by piece. He’s let himself get wrecked by one man, one hell of a man indeed, but he acknowledges that Sherlock is- was, in the end, just a man. John forces himself to think like that, because the option, the awful alternative is far worse. So he convinces his own mind that this man was his saviour and his wrecker and that’s that. And denial is his best weapon, so he uses it once and again to keep his mind off Sherlock.

 

Then, there’s reality, with his monster keeping up the torment for a while: skin white as paper and unresponsive hands and stains of blood and eyes cold as steel, but John denies the monster the satisfaction of winning the game. A few nights a week he wakes up screaming: “Stop it. Stop this,” but he just shakes his head and goes right back to sleep. Gradually, things start to get better. Nightmares become such a bland and sporadic event that he almost doesn’t remember them the morning after; the monster starts to hide its fangs and John is finally able to let go.

 

He finds a girlfriend, constant and loving, so, so loving and his pain starts to yield. He stops thinking about it, starting to feel light-hearted and content. Happiness was a word that he thought he could never use to describe his life ever again, but here he is, happy and being loved, but most importantly, not alone anymore. And he regains control; he doesn’t lose himself in his tangled mind and he is, by all means, happy. The monster doesn’t reign over his life anymore.

 

This ethereal situation lasts more than a year. And time goes by meek and vehement, letting John re-settle his mind back to a primordial state of calmness and- limp-free, nightmare-free- Sherlock-free. It’s the ideal situation he always wanted for himself, the lack of silence and alone time and being always busy and having things to do. He enjoys it with naivety.

He doesn’t notice the pyre burning inside of him, a pyre of fire and ice, with a core pushing to sneak out, seeking freedom.

 

And because of an intrusive, icy and denied fire propelling the centre of his life, everything gets shattered into a million pieces; and the fall, the deep, endless fall to the well of silence is insightful, melancholic and bitter, but extremely real and terrifying. It takes just one dream, one little gentle dream to destroy his life based on denial. This one night, the night of his own fall, he goes to bed with his loving and caring girlfriend and he falls asleep right away; no sex, no cuddles, no goodnight kisses.

 

He hears a too well-known voice, deep and mellow in the back of his mind. “Wake up.” He realizes he’s grinning, with a full happy smile on his face, and fighting his heavy eyelids; he wants to open his eyes. “Wake up, I’m here.” He really needs to open his eyes, now. And he feels it, the fire, irradiating from him, breaking free from the cage of denial John so carefully managed to set up.

 

“Wake up.” And he finally does: eyes wide open unbelieving and hopeful, confused and ecstatic. He stares at Sherlock, Sherlock whispering, Sherlock looking at him, Sherlock up close, Sherlock. So alive. His wrecker, his saviour. Instinctively, as if it’s something he does every day of his life, John reaches up, just a little, just a few centimetres, and kisses him, deep and soft and passionate and loving, careful, so, so careful; the pyre burning as bright as ever with its fire expanding a wave of warmness and light around them, embracing Sherlock who seems so lost and frightened, so fragile and cold; but alive, so very much alive, and John just wants to hold him tight, tight, tight and never let go again. “It’s ok, Sherlock, I’ll always be here.”

 

John finds himself whispering words to the air surrounding him in his room and to his, from now on, ex-girlfriend. A battle begins, it's a never-ending battle for him that started three years ago. Sherlock tends to do this; he puts John in the battlefield, no matter how or why. Even from the deadliest death, Sherlock always gets what he wants and John always, always, always obliges. So his girlfriend is out of the scene in an hour or two, maybe three. She resists leaving because she really loves John. But it’s over. It’s over. Again.

 

He breathes in and out the cold air of the room, five, ten, a thousand times. It feels so cold against his warm body and he notices he’s covered in sweat. And the fire burning, now free, unchained, allowed; flames lighting him up from the inside out. He thinks hard, frowning at the mental image of Sherlock matching a light and burning him, but in a good way. It’s a sweet and dramatic fire; one he is now ready to understand.

“It’s ok, Sherlock, I’ll always be here.”

 

It seems too real, too goddamned real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm putting John on a roller coaster that goes forward and backwards in a loop.  
> Sorry, John.
> 
> Also, dream sequence with Sherlock's POV coming insanely soon.


	4. Emotion: a mental state that arises spontaneously

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dreaming of monsters

Emotion: a mental state that arises spontaneously

 

Sherlock has a monster of his own; and being his mind as grand and unfathomable as it is, the monster couldn’t be scarier. It shakes him, gets to him in his sleep and locks its jaw around his heart. Sherlock is strong enough to fight it when he has to, or even evade it altogether. But one night, after three years of battling away the fear and pain, he lets himself surrender. It’s been three years since he left home, more than he’d ever wanted to. It’s been a lifetime. And after a week of sleepless work, while lying on the sofa thinking about every topic he’s avoided ever since he left Baker Street, Sherlock falls asleep.

 

When he opens his eyes, he sees his right arm, and he trails along it until he notices his elbow is bending around a body: a hot, sweaty, comfortable body. He finishes his path and perceives his right hand firmly holding to the back of another hand, someone else’s right hand. Sherlock blinks twice, breathes in and tries to push himself up, but rapidly realizes his left arm is trapped and secured under the unknown person lying beside him and he has this feeling, this out of place emotion, that he doesn’t want to take his arm from underneath the warm person sleeping against him. He opts to look around a little, investigate the scene where he finds himself, trying to move as little as possible. He can’t make much of anything: windows are closed, lights are out; too much darkness for him to distinguish something. He turns his head to the right, looking for some evidence, but still the darkness is surrounding them. He looks back at his bed companion, all sweaty hair and warm body, with a duvet covering them both and a chill coming through a little crack where he’s stuck his leg out. He sniffs the hair searching for some recognizable aroma, and a scent suddenly makes him understand; he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

 

“I’ve missed you”, Sherlock says, burying his nose in John’s hair. He’s still sleeping, unaware of what’s happening. “I’m so sorry, but I’m back now.” He takes the hand he’s holding onto and squeezes it gently. “Wake up.” A very asleep John doesn’t answer. Sherlock begins to remove his left arm from underneath John’s body and with a little pull he’s free and able to throw the duvet far away and sit down on the bed, still holding John’s hand strongly. And yet John doesn’t wake up.

“Wake up, I’m here.” His right hand is tightening the grip while the left one shakes softly John’s shoulder. And still there isn’t a reply.

 

Sherlock throws himself on the bed and lies on his back for a minute just to sit up again facing John, legs crossed, and he rolls John’s hot body with a gentle move. He can see his face now, John’s face, sleepy and idle John, smiling John. Sherlock draws his face closer, nose brushing nose. “Wake up.” He whispers, waiting for John’s awakening.

And finally John awakens and with a warm and habitual movement he kisses him. Sherlock closes his eyes submerging in the affectionate greeting, letting himself be pulled down to a wide sea of bliss, drowning in the lips that are touching him so lightly; intimacy and sweetness closing in on him.

 

“It’s ok, Sherlock, I’ll always be here.” Sherlock feels the words fading away, leaving him. He opens his eyes feeling alone and cold again and he gets up from the sofa and forces himself into the shower. Hot scalding water always helps him clear his head and what he most needs is to adjust his thoughts.

 

The monster caught him. It’s here, kicking and screaming. He’d always managed to wake himself before the monster could slide in; he’d never got to see John’s face. The dream, or, more accurately, the nightmare, always stops at Sherlock sniffing the hair or before. Never even once his mind had let him go past that, though sometimes he could hear John’s voice, the monster whispering from afar.

 

He’d never let himself get caught in this loop of feelings before: he had to stay focused on the job and remember that everything else was all transport. But now, his own personal monster is pouring through his mind, clasping its jaws and claws at him, covering him with fire and mesmerizing him. Nothing is preventing Sherlock from going back home; he’s free to do as he wishes and his dreams are quite compelling, demonstrating him his true desire: hurry back home. Hurry back to John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I left John alone for now. FOR NOW.  
> It was time to torture Sherlock a little.


	5. Physical Impact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When emotion hits you in the face, hit back. Or don't. Whatever.

Physical Impact

 

It’s late and cold in London, the flat is empty and dark and Sherlock manages to break in without any difficulties; once inside he sits down to wait. And waits and waits. The door opens suddenly after a couple of hours; steps approaching him, a light being turned on, a kettle heating up water, cupboard doors getting open and then closed again, a chair creaking in the kitchen, a tune being hummed. Sherlock thinks that maybe he should’ve waited there. Silence falls. Sherlock waits in silence, and waits and waits. The chair creaks again, footsteps are approaching again, the light is turned off, and another light is turned on, the humming gets closer and closer. He stands up and waits for John’s eyes to catch him.

 

Emotion hits John in the face and makes him succumb to the fire living inside of him. This one is a state that predisposes him to action. And his action is simple and customary; the mug ends up shattering on the wall behind Sherlock. John thinks he must be dreaming, having an awful nightmare, but the sound of the mug crashing against the wall snaps him out of it. It takes only a few seconds. Sherlock is staring at him with eyes wide open shining with pleasure and then, with horror. He definitely should’ve waited in the kitchen.

 

John’s heart constricts; it feels like a boa is wrapping around it and tightening the grip. And tightens and tightens. He can’t breathe. He closes his eyes, holds his breath and swallows; and swallows again and again, thinking only about the movement of his throat and the sound it makes, trying to concentrate on something other than the boa triturating him and preparing to eat him up.

 

John opens his mouth to speak. He holds it open for a whole minute. No sound comes out, silence falls again. Sherlock is observing him and even though he feels a sudden urge to hug John tight, tight, tight, he stays still, observing and-. John opens his eyes finally and stares at the long pale figure standing in front of him, thinking that it must be a ghost. That’s his first thought, because it cannot be actually him, after three years it cannot be him, it’d better not be him. He steps forward, drawing himself nearer to his- to Sherlock.

 

A hand seems to be holding his shoulder and John starts shaking violently. Tears. There are tears on John’s face and Sherlock reaches out to touch them. The tears, John’s tears, are warm and Sherlock licks one of his finger; it’s salty and warm and sad, so, so sad. Sherlock concentrates, frowning at John. He was not supposed to be crying now, he was supposed to be happy. Maybe they’re happy tears, those exist.

But they are not, and Sherlock knows it and again, he reaches out to touch him, but John ducks and avoid the contact. The boa has still a firm grip and it feels like his heart is jumping all over his chest to break free. It is surprise and fear and panic and anger and euphoria and grief. Grief all over again. But now, he’s not grieving for his partner, he’s grieving for their relationship.

It’s betrayal and disgust and- nausea- nausea growing up in his stomach. He crouches down and the nausea takes over, making John throw up. Sherlock pets his back and his hair and, slowly, John notices the boa is going away, liberating him from that terrible grip. He sits down on the floor and catches his breath, eyes closed again. Sherlock sits by his side and for a long, long time he smoothes his hair, stroking his back, his arms. His soul.

And the boa is completely gone and John’s left tired and- angry and hurt. Gratitude and hysteria building up close together, with sadness and sorrow, and his eyes are red and his clothes dirty and he still wants some tea.

After what seems hours of sitting around doing nothing more than breathe, he stands up and walks to the kitchen, he puts the kettle on and he turns to the bathroom to brush his teeth and take the disgusting vomit aftertaste away, and then he goes off to the kitchen again. Sherlock hears all his movements, shifts a little and stands, watching John go back into the kitchen; his heart sad and pleased and wrecked. They are both wrecked, they’ve been wrecked for years, but at least now, they can be wrecked together. Again.

 

Sherlock enters the kitchen, and the image that his eyes are capturing is heartbreaking: a mug waiting for him, John sitting on a chair, staring at the table and his own mug in his hand, shaking uncontrollably. Sherlock watches him sip, sip, sip, trying to pour some tea down his throat. It’s obvious he’s trying to calm down. He’s also nibbling a biscuit. So he walks to the chair right in front of John and sits down, grabs the mug and tastes his tea; it feels hot and sweet and milky on his tongue, it calms him down. John’s still shaking and staring down, down, down, six feet under.

 

“You,” John speaks between minuscule sips of tea. “You are.” He keeps staring at the table; Sherlock stays quiet for a while, not knowing what to say.

“Yes. Yes, I am.” Sherlock throws some tea down his throat, almost chocking. He coughs and thinks that this conversation is going to take some time to develop correctly. “That’s obvious.” Sherlock realizes what he’s saying too late.

“You,” John puts down the mug loudly on the table. He clenches his jaw, teeth against teeth, anger boiling in his heart, fire rising; he looks up into Sherlock’s eyes and stands up in a hurry, “no,” he says, “Sherlock, no. Not obvious to me.” He turns around shaking his head, not looking at him, but looking down, down, down, and rushes to his bedroom. Sherlock catches a glimpse of the tears again, those salty, sad tears.

 

There’s a very loud noise, the slamming of a door. It’s John, he’s in his bedroom. Once inside he punches the door with his right fist, caging himself, away from Sherlock. His body falls unresponsive to the floor, forehead against the wooden door, hands clasping at it, not knowing what to do, moving randomly; legs scattered everywhere: twisted, useless, trembling. The heartache is overwhelming and he shudders and shudders and shudders, his mind gone completely blank and tears, so many tears, all of them, every one of them fighting to come out. Sherlock is sitting at the other side. He hears him breathing and sighing, then breathing deep again. John holds his breath just for a moment, to make the angst lose its momentum. No air to feed the pyre. The soldier in him always wins these battles.

 

“I didn’t let go.” John establishes this fact first, as an accusation. “I did, but then I didn’t.”His breath catches up with him, and he sighs loudly. “I couldn’t. It wasn’t a possibility.” John doubts his own words, he can’t trust himself, and he feels his voice trembling.

“It was, I mean, it was, but it wasn’t.” He shuts up and listens. Silence.

“Are you there?” He asks sheepishly.

Sherlock takes his time to answer, trying to think, think, think. “Yes.” That’s the most he gets from his useless brain.

“Ah, ok. Well, I did, but I didn’t let go. ”John doesn’t understand why he’s explaining this. “And you are, you are here now and-” His breath hisses, he sighs and sighs. “I’m not ready for this. ”He glues his forehead to the door, his nose aching from the uncomfortable touch. “I always thought,” he shakes his head slowly, “but no. No way.” He wants to be on the other side of this door, but he doesn’t trust himself. Not yet.

Sherlock is lost. He’s never been disappointed on himself, this is a first one. “If you need me to leave, John-”

But John interrupts him and starts hitting the door loudly with his left palm, and he finishes it with a firm punch on the door that resounds on Sherlock’s ear and leaves a hole on John’s side of the door.

“No. Don’t you dare.” Silence falls again and again. For minutes that seem hours silence reigns again.

John repeats himself as Sherlock doesn’t answer. “Don’t- don’t you fucking dare.” He raises his voice and pushes his fists to the floor, aiming to stand up.

 

His body doesn’t react effectively; he lacks the strength to get to his feet, so he lets his body fall again, his back against the wooden door and his legs spread across the floor. He inhales deeply, one, two, three times and bumps softly his head against the door. Sighs. Sighs from both sides of the mistreated door. Sherlock can’t gather together three words to say to John.

 

“You don’t get to do this, Sherlock. Come and go as you please. You can’t just appear after three years in my living room, silent and dark, like a ninja. You can’t. It’s not ok.” He shakes his head again and feels dizzy from the movement.

“I’m,” Sherlock closes his eyes. He should be able to say it, he knows he feels it. Words are not being friendly with him now and neither is his brain. “I’m,” he remains silent.

“I know.” John knows and Sherlock knows that John knows. John always knows and yet he lets Sherlock get away with everything.

“Obvious.” Sherlock smirks to the empty room, still sitting down, leaning his back against the door.

“Oh, shut it with the obvious. Nothing is obvious if you are involved, Sherlock.” There’s a mix of irritation and vague affection in his tone, and Sherlock listens carefully for any sign. Anything. Something.

 

Feeling his legs regain strength and his head less dizzy, John tries to get up once more, and succeeding, he crawls to his bed and sits down, hunching his back, and letting his head fall back. His shoulders hurt and his jaw is too tense, like when he wakes up from a long, dreadful nightmare. They stay in silence for a long time.

 

“I don’t know where to begin.” Sherlock is whispering into the door and John barely hears him.

“From the beginning, Sherlock, from the very beginning.” His answer is full of questions and doubts.

“Oh, ok. When we met- when we met, you were limping psychosomatically. You had a tired face with a military sorrow surrounding you. You were struggling to get by. I saw the need in your eyes. You needed the battlefield. You needed me.” Sherlock is telling a tale that he didn’t know he was ready to put out in words and he shifts uncomfortably, tossing and turning on the floor.

John grunts between his teeth. “Fast-forward.”

“What?” He asks, lost in his own mind.

“I said fast-forward.”

“No.”

“Then I don’t want to listen to this shit.” John halts. “Sorry.” He frowns and scolds himself, shrugging it off. “No, I’m not sorry. This is pure shit, Sherlock.” He stands from his bed and approaches the door again, laying his left temple against it. “I should go out there and beat the hell out of you.”

“I know, but you won’t.”

“No, I won’t. I’m in here for a reason. I wanted you to live to tell the tale.”

“Yet you won’t allow me.” They sigh in unison and Sherlock shrugs. “To tell the tale, I mean.”

“Yes, I know what you mean.” John stretches out his right hand and touches the door, with a friendly movement. “I just think that what you’re about to say, I deserve you saying it to my face and not a door. And right now, if I go out there with you, your face will get disfigured.” His anger shows up again and he bites his tongue, stepping away from the door once more.

“Oh.” Sherlock stands up and scratches his head.

“Yes. Oh.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of the three original ones, only that it was very, VERY, VERY MUCH extended.  
> Long chapter is long.
> 
> As my sister would say: "Me fui al chori" and traslated is "I went to the sausage" which doesn't even make sense, but neither does this chapter.
> 
> Sorry!

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by a book of Forensic Psychiatry about Violent Emotions.  
> Weird prompt, I know, but would you judge me? Med school took over my life three years ago.


End file.
